Dinner with a Stranger: Kuala Lumpur

'Muddy confluence' said the fat man sitting across from me, 'that's what Kuala Lumpur means'. Leaning back in the rusty chair, I reflected on his translation. Malaysia's capital Kuala Lumpur is, in some sense, a city of muddied boundaries. It's caught in a metropolitan dilemma; it aspires to be Singapore, but at times feels more like Bangkok. Much of city has the appearance of its clean and clinically efficient brother in the south. But on the edges, it's all the raffish ins-and-outs of its wilder sister in the north.



Now, my travel philosophy is one that promotes eating locally. If you want to eat like a local, it makes sense that you have to go where the locals are eating. With this in mind, I'd gone on a hunt for the best food Kuala Lumpur - KL as the locals call it - had to offer. And like many cities around the world, the best KL had to offer was born in desperate circumstances. Corruption and gang-driven violence had devastated some of KL's local neighborhoods for years, and the cuisine in rough neighborhoods had adapted to the constraints of the poverty brought on by the fighting.

'What you doing here?' he demanded as fresh grease ran down his arm from the heap of steaming fried rice he took in his right hand. Many Malaysians eat without utensils, preferring to dig in with their fingers. It was nearly eleven o'clock at night and I was north of the Masjid Jamek, in a neighborhood reputed to be a little rough. We were sitting in a bustling cafeteria - a hawker stop - with about two hundred other hungry Malays, each coming to feast on the countless number dishes from the dozens of little stalls. Hawker stands, like their Irani counterparts in Hyderbad and Lucknow, encourage their guests to pick a food, and to aggressively fight for a place to sit down. It takes practice for the uninitiated, and generally those who are unfamiliar will take a seat anywhere they can. It's also these kinds of cafés that, by design, encourage you to chat with whoever is at the table you happen to win a spot at.

'I've never seen a white man here.' Looking around I noticed he was right. I was alone. Shrugging, I changed the topic.

The reason I had sat down next to this man in particular was, in all honesty,  because of his weight. He was very fat, so I figured he knew where to get some good local grub. In exchange for some local flair and advice for what to see and where to eat, I had agreed to buy him a plate of spicy nasi goreng, fried rice accented with distinct Malaysian spices.

In return, he bought me a beer, and the conversation started.

'I'm amazed a European looking man would come here. This is local territory. It has bad reputation, but it is safe.' Sipping beer, our conversation grew beyond simply food to abstracting about life in general. As you'd expect from an ex-philosopher turned professional global nomad-wanderer, we took some wild turns - first taking about knickknacks concerning religion, prayer, and freedom. And as the beer flowed, the topics reflected more complexity: women, houses, cars, food, magazines, our basic failures and successes. We talked about everything from the mundane to the esoteric. Hesitantly, he told me about growing up in a one-room hut on a beach. His mother had been used by the Japanese as a prostitute during the war and he was a result. He'd also spent some time in jail for leading a protest and now he was a simple man working odd jobs at a bank. I'd told him about my comparatively minor, but very recent, failures as a graduate student. And the night went on.

As the clock ticked towards two in the morning and the cafeteria emptied, the hawkers grew impatient  with our incessant desire to continue talking. Then, after a particularly aggressive Chinese woman told us to leave, we stood up to leave. As we vacated the premise, he offered to drive me to my hotel. Funny, I thought, for a man of such a modest background to suggest driving me home. Knowing that I didn't know him or KL, I politely declined. It might be a 'safe' neighborhood, but that doesn't give an excuse for exchanging common sense for blind trust.

Together we walked down the street chewing paan. Paan is a sweet Indian delicacy made from the intoxicating betel nut; a deliciously mild narcotic wrapped in a leaf that stains your teeth and everything it touches. As we walked, spitting the betel nut's juices, we joked about how the guidebooks advise people to stay out of the neighborhood, when in reality this was the 'real' KL, the nitty-gritty of Malay street-life and, in some sense, the epitome of it's culture.

After a few blocks, he told me he was parked next to the metro. As we turned the corner, the parking lot was desolate save for a single car. The dim streetlight illuminated the unmistakable silhouette of a Lamborghini.

I asked him if that was his car. He shrugged, shook my hand, and gave me his business card. The card had his name, and his title. He was the CEO of a major Malaysian bank - it's skyscraper hung in the background of the parking lot, dominating KL's skyline. 'Call me next time you're in KL. It was a nice chat.'

As we parted, I googled the name in the business card. Soon, the irony became apparent: the poor backpacker just bought the one of the richest men in the world a thirty-three cent dinner.